


Under the sun.

by orange_crushed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s09e06 Heaven Can't Wait, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Season/Series 09, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 10:42:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_crushed/pseuds/orange_crushed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Take me there,” says Castiel, “or let me off here. I can walk. It’s not far.”</p>
<p>“Okay, okay,” Dean says. “Don’t get out of the car, fuck, come on- you’re ridiculous, put your seatbelt back, I didn’t mean, whatever.” The light changes, and for a minute he doesn’t notice, too busy slapping Castiel’s fingers away from the buckle.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the sun.

It takes Dean a minute to realize, as they pass the dry cleaner’s and the Arby’s and then the little strip mall with the comic book shop and the hoagie place in it, that Castiel is actually directing him back to the gas station.

“Hey,” Dean says. “I said I’d drive you home. I don’t have to take you back to work.” They’re sitting at a long stop light, even though there’s literally no traffic anywhere around them, no cars except for the ones idling in the fast-food drive-thru across the street. Castiel is looking straight ahead at the windshield, like Dean isn’t there. “Where are you staying?” Castiel doesn’t say anything. But then he looks down into his lap. “Oh, Jesus,” Dean says, without meaning to. “You’re- at the _store_?”

“Where am I meant to go?” Castiel asks. He stares across the seats at Dean, wounded, shoulders curled inward but eyes sharp. He shifts and his back straightens and he looks forward again, to the road. “I don’t have anywhere else,” he says. “I’m not ashamed.”

“Cas-“

“Take me there,” says Castiel, “or let me off here. I can walk. It’s not far.”

“Okay, okay,” Dean says. “Don’t get out of the car, fuck, come on- you’re ridiculous, put your seatbelt back, I didn’t mean, whatever.” The light changes, and for a minute he doesn’t notice, too busy slapping Castiel’s fingers away from the buckle. The car lurches forward into the lane and they drive in silence for a few minutes, until Dean pulls them into the lot of the Gas-N-Sip. Castiel says _goodnight_ tightly and then opens the door and starts to get out of the car like he’s just going to leave Dean there, like this is somehow over. Dean puts a hand on his arm and they both sit there for a moment looking down at the point where they touch. “Uh,” says Dean, eventually. His thought process seems to be malfunctioning. It’s not telling him anything useful, except that Castiel’s skin is warm under his shirt sleeve. Sure, brain, go ahead: take the night off. “I’m glad you called me,” he says, wondering if his face looks as silly as he feels. Castiel slumps backwards slightly into the seat, pressing a little harder into Dean’s hand. He leans his head to the side and then they are looking at each other, crookedly, too close.

“I’m glad you came,” Castiel says, honestly. His face is so serious. “And I’m glad you came back, tonight. To help me. If you hadn’t-“

“No,” Dean says. “Shut up.” His hand squeezes Castiel’s arm. “Don’t talk like that, you would have figured something.”

“Probably,” Castiel says, sort of dryly. Apparently, he still thinks he’s hilarious. Dean remembers when he used to tilt his head to threaten archangels; there’s a spark of that left, even if he mostly uses it to dig at Dean. Dean can take it. Dean’s glad to see it. “You should go,” Castiel says, finally. Quietly. “It’s a long drive.”

“Got a motel,” Dean shrugs. He looks up. “You could stay the night.”

“No,” Castiel says. He’s flexing his hand and Dean suddenly remembers the rose stalk, the blood he saw Castiel cleaning off the glass doors. Castiel’s got a paper towel around his palm, he wouldn’t let Dean look at it. “I want to get this cleaned off and dressed. There’s ointment in the store. And I need to soak this shirt.” He turns the cuff over and there’s a wide slash of dried blood on the sleeve. “I don’t know if it will come out,” he admits.

“I’ve got stuff in the trunk,” Dean says. “Bandages.” Castiel’s face takes on that stubborn, strained look, like he is about to give Dean a lecture about being an independent member of society. Dean can’t bear it. “Please,” he blurts. “Let me.” Castiel studies his face for a long moment, and then pulls the passenger door shut. His eyes are soft and dark; he turns them away from Dean to study the ragged dressing on his hand, the worn creases of the jeans he’s wearing. Dean doesn’t know where they came from, these clothes.

“Okay,” Castiel says.

So Dean drives them to the Starlite and parks in front of his room; he unlocks the door and ushers Castiel inside and then freaks right out when Castiel unwraps his hand and finally shows him the nasty, uneven gash that’s been torn open across the skin of his palm.

“What the fucking fuck,” Dean says, holding Castiel’s wrist and hand under the water. Castiel grits his teeth and fumes at Dean as much as he can while being practically tucked under Dean’s shoulder. “This is ugly, it’s gonna-“

“Have you forgotten,” Castiel hisses, “how recently I was _stabbed to death_?” Dean gapes at him. Castiel twists away, but keeps his hand under the water. He rubs gently at the edges of the cut, rinsing off the crusted blood. “I’ll live,” he says, staring down into pink water. When his hand is clean, they sit on the edge of the mattress and Dean swabs antibiotic cream into the flesh of the cut while Castiel holds preternaturally still and glares intensely down into his palm. After a couple of seconds Dean hears him exhale sharply and then say _shit_ in practically a whisper. For some twisted reason this cracks Dean up, and then Castiel is smiling, too. Dean wraps his hand up in gauze and tapes it secure, and Castiel flexes his fingers a couple times and pronounces it good. The shirt’s another problem. Castiel slides out of it, totally shameless this time, and stands half-naked in front of the sink for a while, scrubbing at the sleeve one-handed with a bar of soap from the motel bathroom and soaking the front of his pants in the process. Finally Dean takes it the shirt away from him and fills the sink with cold water and some salt.

“You just got to let it sit,” he says. “Give it a little while.” He hands Castiel a t-shirt from his own bag and tries not to look too hard as Castiel’s shoulders disappear under fabric again. They sit and watch television for an hour or so, eating out of a bag of cold French fries left over from Dean’s shitty dinner, and then moving on to a giant bag of peanut butter M&M’s that Sam doesn’t know Dean keeps in the car ninety percent of the time. Castiel has apparently been watching television in the back room at the gas station before he goes to sleep at night, on a tiny portable set that only picks up PBS and CBS with any regularity. He knows all the characters on NCIS. “Gross,” Dean says, and heckles the terrible plot twists. But he doesn’t mind watching _Person of Interest_ after the other one ends. Before the credits Castiel is asleep beside him, head pillowed on one arm with his bad hand carefully propped up, slumped sideways towards Dean but not touching him, his good hand still caught on the edge of the candy bag. Dean slides it away from him and finishes it and then spends all of _Late Night_ watching Castiel sleep with his mouth open and his legs splayed out and his face slack and young-looking against the comforter. Dean’s seen him conked out from exhaustion in the backseat, rumpled and miserable and running on angel fumes, once upon a time. But he’s never seen him like this. He looks like a human man after a long day at work; like somebody’s son.

Dean thinks he is still awake until the moment when he sits up, blinking against the light coming in from the window.

“Phhrf,” Castiel says, next to him, and curls his arm tighter around Dean’s hip. His face is pressed carelessly into the meat of Dean’s ribs, nose and cheek rubbing the bare skin above Dean’s belt. Dean goes totally still and feels a hot flush of terror quake through him. It’s early and shockingly bright and he feels like he’s been caught at something. Like he told secrets in his sleep. He looks down and realizes that his own arm is sprawled out over Castiel’s back, hand protective at the point where his neck curves into the top of his spine; his fingers dipping below the collar of his shirt. Dean thinks about pulling away, sliding out, going to take a shower or a walk outside. But Castiel is warm and solid next to him and his body thrums with human pulses: a heartbeat, slow breath.

_I want to live_.

“Yeah,” Dean murmurs, above him. He strokes the skin just under the fine hairs at the back of Castiel’s neck; feels him shift gently in his sleep, open and peaceful and bare like a new thing, something beautiful. “I want that, too.”

 

 

.


End file.
